


Never Did Run Smooth

by daasgrrl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff, Humour, M/M, PWP, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 02:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The course of <strike>true love</strike> mildly kinky sex never did run smooth. An experiment in fluff and awkwardness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Did Run Smooth

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to **evila_elf** for beta.
> 
> I realised I'd never written a 'proper' Sherlock/John fic apart from a few drabbles, so I thought I'd try it as a challenge. As an added degree of difficulty, I also thought I'd aim for fluff, which is again usually not my thing. Turns out it's a lot harder than it looks. Um, no pun intended.

John stares across the room for one disbelieving second as Sherlock finishes explaining his proposition, and then slings the plastic bags he’s holding onto the kitchen table. “No,” he says. Somewhere inside the pile of grocery shopping a jar falls over with an underlining _thunk_.

Sherlock surveys him calmly from the sofa, his dressing gown pooling around him. Hasn’t even bothered getting changed today, the git.

“Where do you even get these ideas, anyway?” John turns away to open the fridge and puts the milk and cheese away, eyeing their allocated spaces carefully before setting them down. Door and top two shelves for food, bottom two for body parts and experiments, sealed containers _only_ , and John has vowed never, ever to look in the crisper.

“A little variety never hurt,” Sherlock says, as though their lives were a model of humdrum routine, a monotony of nine-to-five murder with only a spot of arson or kidnapping at the weekends to liven things up a little. “Besides, I thought you might enjoy it.”

“You saying you’re getting _bored_ with our sex life already?” John cocks an inquiring eyebrow before automatically stowing tins and packets away in the still rather bare-looking cupboards.

“Not as such.” Sherlock smirks in a way John accepts as flattery. “But why run the risk?”

“I find the mere existence of the phrase ‘our sex life’ quite remarkable enough, don’t you? I’m not sure it needs any… extras.”

John stuffs the emptied bags under the sink, then walks into the living room. He has his hands on his hips, glaring down at Sherlock, taking advantage of one of the few situations in which he actually can. Sherlock looks up at him with one of those odd crooked smiles, a mere curve of the corner of the mouth. It makes him look horribly smug.

“Besides,” John continues. “What makes you think I’d be the least bit interested in you… getting off on telling me what to do?” The phrase Sherlock had actually used was _dominate_ , but that was what John had heard, reduced to its simplest terms. “Have you ever thought I might find it more intensely arousing if you did the shopping once in a while? Or the laundry?”

“I just thought it would appeal to you! Let’s face it, you’re halfway there already.”

“Right, shut up, Sherlock. If you bothered paying a bit more attention, you’d _observe_ that this conversation isn’t exactly turning me on. It’s been a long day, and Tesco’s was bedlam. Maybe I’d be more interested in discussing this after a nice dinner. That someone else took care of. For once.”

“I think you should start by taking off that jacket. Followed by your shirt.”

“And here we circle back around to the ‘no’ part of the conversation.”

“But I’ve been waiting for you to come home _all day_.” Sherlock finally pushes himself off the sofa, transitioning from supine to standing in one impossibly fluid movement. He’s back to towering over John, arms folded, but it isn’t in the least intimidating, particularly not with the petulant expression on his face.

“The whining is also less attractive than you think,” John says. Nevertheless he lets Sherlock kiss him, and even runs his hands down the silk of Sherlock’s back to cup his arse firmly. It becomes immediately obvious that there’s not a thing on underneath that dressing gown, in which he’s been lying around in all day, the heady dark scent of him permeating the silk. The thought brings its own rewards, and leads John to rub himself lightly against Sherlock, just to see what happens.

Sherlock gasps a little into his mouth, and John has to admit it’s very nice indeed. Given enough incentive, maybe John could see his way clear to indulging Sherlock a little. After all, he does need to relax after a long day at the clinic, and it’s not as if he’s that hungry. Or at least, as he discovers after pushing his tongue more deeply into Sherlock’s mouth, not necessarily for food.

“So what is it you had in mind, exactly?” John says, playing along for the moment, pretending everything Sherlock’s been suggesting is perfectly sane and reasonable. Fortunately he’s amassed considerable experience in this area.

“You simply need to do everything I instruct you to. Hardly much of a leap from the usual.” Sherlock’s smirk has edged over from flattering into irritating.

“And what exactly do you mean by that – _the usual_?” John says, in the tone of voice that suggests he already knows what Sherlock is going to say and is just daring him to say it. Naturally, Sherlock doesn’t hesitate.

“You were in the army for three years, so you’re obviously well accustomed to taking orders. Additionally, in the time I’ve known you, you’ve proved yourself capable of following them with reasonable competence.” John glares at him, which Sherlock blithely ignores. “And you aren’t fundamentally averse to taking on a subordinate role – you did just go and do the shopping, after all.”

“Only because some of us actually like to eat once in a while. _Not_ because you asked me to. Because you didn’t,” John points out. His voice comes out remarkably calm and even, considering just how much Sherlock is pissing him off right now.

Sherlock airily waves the qualification aside. “I’m just demonstrating how obvious an extrapolation it is. You’ll be fine. Just pretend we’re on a case.”

“A case… where I’m aiming to catch some murderer by having sex with you. While letting you boss me about.”

“It’s the principle we’re discussing here, John. You really are being extraordinarily difficult about this.”

“And what exactly do I get out of your little power trip? God, it’s finally happened. You’ve turned into your brother.”

“John!” Sherlock manages to look simultaneously disgusted and horrified. “Take that back!”

“Look,” John says, calmer now. “I just don’t understand what’s wrong with normal… sex. I don’t usually hear you complaining. Especially when your mouth is full.”

“Think of it as an experiment, John. When else am I ever going to get the opportunity?” Sherlock has somehow managed to invest his thoroughly unreasonable suggestion with a slightly plaintive air. While John’s aware he’s being shamelessly manipulated, it appears to be working anyway. Sherlock senses him wavering, and pounces. “I’ll even cook you dinner afterwards.”

John gives a short bark of laughter at the thought. “Yeah, that would be lovely, except that you have no intention of cooking, because you can’t cook. And even if you could, I’d prefer something recognisable as food, and that I can be fairly confident hasn’t accidentally incorporated random body parts in.”

“Fine. We’ll get takeaway. That you order and I pay for.”

“Slightly more attractive. And _you_ clean up afterwards.”

Sherlock folds his arms. “You really are entirely failing to enter into the spirit of things.”

His exasperation is weirdly endearing, and John glances up at him with mock-meekness, and strokes his arm placatingly, trying not to smile. “But if you agree to it, then I’ll do anything you want.” He tilts his chin up and lets Sherlock kiss him again, feeling rather than hearing the slight hitch in his breathing. “Within reason, of course.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock says, his eyes narrowing with suspicion and then relaxing again as John continues his show of wide-eyed innocence. His voice is a notch lower now as he continues. “That would appear… satisfactory.”

“Good. Well, then, I’m all yours. So to speak.”

“I don’t like your jacket. The black is boring. Take it off.”

“It’s a perfectly good jacket. Just because it doesn’t swirl around dramatically and create wind resistance when I’m running.”

“Off,” Sherlock insists. John shrugs it off and dumps it on a chair, shaking his head, while Sherlock looks on with his arms folded. “And no arguing. You’re forgetting yourself already.”

John rolls his eyes. “Yes, _sir_ ,” he says, with a well-honed inflection of borderline insolence.

As he stands there in his shirt, a fine navy and cream check still buttoned at the wrists, he feels rather more as though he’s awaiting a medical examination than some marginally kinky sex. Which is odd, because taking off the jacket would be an entirely commendable start under other circumstances. He tries to get more into the mood by studying Sherlock as he pads a circle around him, examining him closely. The dressing gown really does drape nicely on his frame, and is now belted so loosely around his waist that it leaves very little to the imagination. It’s that particular thought which brings the flush to John’s cheeks and not Sherlock running a hand appreciatively down the side of his face, although that doesn’t hurt. He also enjoys the way Sherlock is studying him, as though John is even more fascinating than an inexplicable series of suicides or a distinctively dismembered corpse. Of course, it’s also quite clear that Sherlock has no idea what on earth he’s doing, but then neither does John, so on that front at least they’re fairly even.

“Now take off the shirt,” Sherlock says, and it’s a demand John finds easy enough to comply with, first undoing the buttons at his cuffs, then working his way efficiently down the front of his shirt until his thin white vest is exposed. It’s not exactly the most thrilling sight in the world, but Sherlock remains riveted. John strips off the shirt, throwing it on top of the discarded jacket, and instinctively squares his shoulders to face Sherlock’s gaze.

For once Sherlock has nothing to say; he merely strokes his long fingers consideringly down the exposed skin of John’s arms, traces the lines of his shoulders. He tugs roughly, impatiently, at the fabric of the vest, pushing it upwards, and John moves to take that off as well, without being asked. With it out of the way, Sherlock continues to run his hands over John’s skin, bending to plant a soft kiss on the white pucker where the bullet marked him, and John shivers. There’s no real reason for it; it’s not as though he’s never been touched or caressed by Sherlock before, but it’s usually more of a mutual thing, and taking place in the relative privacy of a bedroom. It’s definitely a little weird, just standing here half-naked in the middle of the living room, curtains still open, the streetlights just starting to flicker on outside. His dick is really only just starting to register an interest in proceedings, but the adrenaline is already kicking in nicely.

“So, were you intending to shut the doors at any stage?” John inquires conversationally. “Because while I know you and Mrs Hudson are close, there are sides of you she probably doesn’t need to see. Or hear. Again,” he adds, with just a hint of mischief.

John still remembers the rather awkward conversation in her kitchen a few months back, sitting across from her over tea and biscuits, listening to her flustered plea that perhaps they could see their way to keeping it down just a _little_ , what with her time of life and all. Since John was not by nature excessively vocal, at least decibel-wise, he had come back upstairs and wasted no time in conveying the message to its intended recipient. Sherlock had appeared to ignore him at the time, but there had been a noticeable increase in the shutting of bedroom doors afterwards.

Now Sherlock looks annoyed at John’s suggestion, but obviously retains his excellent memory. “You do it, then,” he says with poor grace, and John obediently goes to shut both kitchen and living room doors in turn, feeling for all the world like some peculiar cross between a stripper and a butler. A houseboy, perhaps.

He smiles at the thought as he returns to his spot in front of the sofa where Sherlock is waiting, looking even more impatient by the moment. He grabs John and kisses him again with a slight frown, as though he were perhaps a bloodstain analysis that was failing to produce the results he’d been anticipating. It’s still a worthwhile kiss, despite his distraction, and John happily leans into it. His hands grasp at the front of Sherlock’s dressing gown to pull him further down, and his tongue is already pressing into Sherlock’s mouth when Sherlock steps back and brushes him off sternly.

“I didn’t say you could do that,” he says.

“You never said I couldn’t,” John counters reasonably.

“That’s not the way it’s meant to work.”

“And you would know this how?” John is seized by a sudden notion. “Oh, god, did you… with Irene?”

“No, of course not,” Sherlock says immediately, and John has no real cause to doubt him. Sherlock had obviously been attracted to her, but perhaps she’d had more of the allure of a worthy opponent than anything more intimate.

“But you were interested,” John continues. “In what she did.”

Sherlock presses his lips together tightly, and doesn’t answer, which to John is as good as an admission. He shakes his head, genuinely curious.

“You wanted to try your hand at doing… the kind of things she does. Why?”

There’s a long pause, as Sherlock just looks at him. “I don’t know.” It sounds as though it physically hurts him to admit it.

“Okay,” John says. The exact shape and form of Sherlock’s sexuality is something he still doesn’t quite understand, despite being an appreciative participant in its expression. He’s not entirely sure Sherlock understands it himself. But he’s fine with it, whatever it is. He knows how much Sherlock likes being smarter than other people, being _better_ , but sometimes it seems as though so much time spent developing his brain has left certain other aspects of Sherlock batting a little behind the average. In the past, if it hadn’t been related to either solving a case, or a matter of basic survival, Sherlock had deemed it an irrelevancy.

However, since meeting John, Sherlock has been persuaded to allow a little leeway in terms of recreational activity – no doubt appreciating John’s argument that it fits into the categories of both an increased understanding of human nature as well as health and fitness – but seems to find his own relative lack of experience a source of continual annoyance. Or maybe he just resents the way John can reduce him to a quivering pulp with very little effort. Strictly speaking, John would be quite prepared to work harder; he just doesn’t need to. When Sherlock chooses to indulge in something, restraint has always been something of a foreign concept to him.

Which makes this charade understandable in a strange way. Sherlock likes to be in charge of things –well, interesting things, anyway, like crime scenes and scandals; when it comes to paying bills and household maintenance he’s generally nowhere to be found. Apparently sex at least comes under the heading of ‘interesting’, which is vaguely flattering, if nothing else.

“So, what should I do next?” John says, trying to bring them back to the moment. He still feels a bit ridiculous, shirtless in his own living room like a misplaced builder’s labourer, but right now he’s more concerned with Sherlock’s response. “Trousers, maybe?” he prods, when Sherlock doesn’t seem inclined to answer.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and then almost immediately reconsiders. “No. Come over here and use your mouth. On me.” He sits back on the long sofa, legs apart, and John obediently leans over to kiss him. Sherlock accepts this graciously for a few seconds, until it becomes clear that it’s _all_ John’s intent on doing.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, when he gets a chance.

“Should’ve been more specific, then, shouldn’t you?” John grins. Demanding as Sherlock is in all other respects, his directness somehow fails to extend to sex, which John finds more entertaining than he should. It’s probably just as well, though; if he ever does manage to teach Sherlock how to talk dirty it could be the death of him. “You mean you want me to suck you off.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, sounding breathless.

“So, I await your orders.” He stands straight but relaxed, with his hands by his sides.

“John!”

“Yes?” He cocks his head inquiringly as Sherlock glares at him.

“Suck me off, then,” Sherlock grits out, and for once John is perfectly happy to obey. He pushes away the fold of dressing gown that isn’t concealing much of anything any more, grasps the base of Sherlock’s cock, and takes him in deep. Sherlock whole body immediately jerks, and he groans so loudly John momentarily fears for Mrs Hudson’s delicate sensibilities. Still, he has his instructions, and so he swallows salt and musk, swirling his tongue just so around the head, until Sherlock is positively whimpering. Which at least dampens the noise a little.

“Stop, stop,” Sherlock gasps, and regretfully that all seems quite clear and unambiguous, so John pulls away, but not without a last lick from root to tip that makes Sherlock shut his eyes and clench his hands again. He’s now looking wonderfully dishevelled, and it makes John feel a lot better about his own semi-clad appearance.

“So…?” he says, and Sherlock waves an irritated hand at him, still getting himself under control. It’s at that exact moment that his phone chimes, accompanied by a vibrate that ripples the fabric around the pocket of his dressing gown. The sound seems to clear Sherlock’s mind wonderfully, and he’s managed to retrieve and is checking it before John has even fully recovered from the interruption. He’d never seen the ‘please switch off all mobile phones’ admonition as being relevant to his sex life before, but then he’s never attempted a relationship with anyone remotely like Sherlock. He supposes he should be grateful it’s taken this long for this to happen to them.

“Oh, good,” Sherlock says. “Molly’s managed to get me the kidney I asked for.”

In a series of efficient, well-controlled motions, John plucks the phone from Sherlock’s hand, has a brief but conclusive exchange with the off button, and throws the phone across the room. It lands on the edge of a cushion and slides comfortably into the depths of the arm-chair. “That’s fantastic, Sherlock. I’m so very glad to hear it.”

“Ah,” Sherlock says, his eyes having mapped the graceful arc of the phone’s trajectory. “Right. One of those… etiquette things.”

John can almost see him mentally adding it to the list that already includes ‘finish up with time-dependent experiments _first_ ’, ‘bodily fluids of sexual partners should not be dabbed onto microscope slides, no matter how interesting an analysis might prove’, and ‘do not compare any part of John’s anatomy to a drowned corpse you might once have seen, not even as a compliment’.

“This isn’t a time you should be rejoicing over a spare kidney. Not unless you’re waiting for a _transplant_.”

“But what if Lestrade calls?”

“You’re busy.”

The struggle is clearly visible on Sherlock’s features, but eventually he gives in as John stares him down.

“Fine,” he says, with a martyred air, and wraps the dressing gown forcefully around himself before slumping back onto the sofa. “Trousers, then.”

“You know, that wasn’t even a sentence.”

“Take. Them. Off.”

“This is going well, isn’t it? I am completely turned on right now.” Nevertheless, John struggles out of his trousers, not even remarking on the fact that technically it’s a lot easier if removes his shoes first, and Sherlock should really have thought to cover this point in finer detail. Likewise, being left standing there in his socks and underwear seems a bit contrary to the spirit of things, so he takes them off as well, without bothering to check. Sherlock doesn’t protest; in fact, he’s actually beginning to look a little disheartened.

John takes pity on him and sits down beside him, leaning into his shoulder and letting his breathing settle softly into Sherlock’s. Despite John being naked and Sherlock nearly so, the mood feels little more than affectionate at this point. Sherlock is radiating tension and uncertainty and that’s not at all what John was hoping for.

“Fine.” Sherlock says. “Maybe you should… just go and get dressed again. This is clearly not working.”

“’Course it is,” John says. He slips a hand beneath the edge of the dressing gown, lets it glide over bare skin under the silk, stroking over the fine hairs on Sherlock’s belly and over the jut of his hip bone. Then he tilts his head up imploringly and opens to Sherlock’s kiss, moaning softly as Sherlock’s tongue presses into his mouth. He slides his hand down further into a loose grip around Sherlock’s half-hearted erection and begins coaxing it back to life. Sherlock shifts and turns towards him, and for a little while it really is fine, with Sherlock making the low, sweet noises that mean more to John than words ever could.

Then there’s a knock at the closed door, followed by the puzzled voice of Mrs Hudson. “Boys?”

John instinctively jerks away before remembering that he did, indeed, lock both doors against just such an eventuality. Sherlock’s eyes merely flicker open with mild interest before focusing more sharply again.

“I think someone’s just delivered Sherlock a… statue?” she continues from the other side of the door, her words muffled. “I’ve had to sign for it.”

“Carrington,” Sherlock says instantly, and John nods, mentally filling in the missing _Lord_ at the front. At this point even John can make a fairly educated guess that said statue is probably of substantial size, worth thousands of pounds, and ugly as sin, just one of the many they’d seen dotted around Carrington’s estate like dead flies on a scone. His lordship’s wife had attempted to frame him for her lover’s death, and the surprise delivery is doubtlessly an oversized token of appreciation for proving same, to his lordship’s considerable relief. The man always did have a terrible sense of timing, as well as taste.

John glances at Sherlock, who shrugs, leaving him to respond. “We’ll come deal with it in a bit, Mrs Hudson!”

“It’s blocking my entire hallway,” she mourns, but shortly thereafter there’s the tiny resigned creak of her retreat down the stairs.

“I know what Mycroft’s getting next Christmas,” Sherlock mutters, and John can’t suppress a giggle at the thought of Mycroft confronted with any of the tasteless marble monstrosities they’d seen, topped with a giant red bow. He could sprain an eyebrow.

John slumps back against Sherlock’s shoulder, looking up at him fondly. “Okay, you’re right. Maybe this isn’t going too well. Dinner?”

“Not at all, John. You haven’t yet held up your end of the bargain, so to speak.”

“Oh, well, go on then, tell me exactly which end I should be holding up.”

Sherlock smiles at him, the light back in his eyes. It seems that it only takes the reminder of a successful case to restore his confidence, in which case a nice discussion of grisly murders would probably count as foreplay. John shoves that thought away with a shudder. Still, he’s fascinated as Sherlock dips his hand into his left-hand pocket, emerging with a familiar-looking tube, which he presses into John’s hand.

“Now go stand back where you were and prep yourself. And _no_ , I’m not going to be more specific,” Sherlock orders, and for once his tone of voice leaves John and his dick disinclined to argue. He stands in front of Sherlock again, and this time he really does feel a little exposed. He warms a dollop of lube in his palm, considering, then strokes himself lightly, enjoying the smooth glide of it along his shaft.

“No,” Sherlock says sharply. “Prep yourself for _me_. Hands off the rest.”

The edge in Sherlock’s voice is definitely an improvement, and John spreads his legs a little and begins to do as instructed, circling the tip of one finger around his hole, massaging the area before slipping it inside.

“Eyes open,” Sherlock demands in a tone that makes John go a little weak at the knees, which is oddly thrilling but less than ideal at this moment. He works one finger properly inside of himself while Sherlock watches him intently, and John’s mouth falls slightly open as he struggles to hold Sherlock’s gaze. His breath comes short and fast and unsteady.

“Another.”

John pushes in another finger to join the first, groaning as he feels the stretch and burn of it. He deliberately avoids his prostate, the shock of pleasure that would threaten his remaining control. Sherlock’s dressing gown has fallen completely open, framing his pale body as he strokes himself with great deliberation, as though taunting John with what he’s not allowed to do himself. John’s tongue flicks out to moisten his lips as he takes in the sight, imagining those long fingers curled around his cock instead, which twitches unattended.

“Your prostate,” Sherlock says, and John curses inwardly but obeys without argument, although his eyes involuntarily close for a moment as the pleasure hits him.

“Oh, god,” he moans, struggling to keep looking into Sherlock’s face as he skims over the place inside him again and again. He’s feeling desperate now, helpless, and from the looks of things Sherlock doesn’t appear to be faring much better.

By the time Sherlock beckons him over, John feels just about on the verge of collapse. His cock is aching to be touched, glistening with moisture at its tip.

Sherlock has already lubed up his fingers, and now he brushes aside John’s hand, replacing it with his own. It shouldn’t feel that much different, but god, it does, the tension of not knowing exactly where or how firmly Sherlock’s fingers will press in, how fast or slow. He’s entirely at Sherlock’s mercy like this.

“You can’t come,” Sherlock warns him, an instant before his mouth surrounds John’s cock with its incredible heat and softness, and John is making the most humiliating sounds as he fights to obey. Not content with that, Sherlock’s tongue begins a leisurely swirl around his shaft.

“God, no. Then you can’t,” John begs, breathless, “do that. You can’t, stop, Sherlock, please.” He’s so close that he doesn’t care any more, he’s going to come down Sherlock’s throat and it’ll be his own bloody fault, but then Sherlock grips the base of his cock firmly and pulls his mouth away, and the shock of it is just enough to pull him back. He’s still gasping with the effort of it, and his breathing seems to be crowding out all other sound in the room.

Sherlock pulls him down onto the sofa, until John’s kneeling astride Sherlock’s lap, and begins kissing him fiercely. Their erections brush against each other, silk against silk, but John keeps his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, while Sherlock’s fingers dig into his hips.

“Ride me,” Sherlock blurts out, and while it’s not quite as confident as before, it’s still passable enough to send an extra jolt along John’s nerves and into his cock.

“Yes,” John says, and lifts himself up, reaching around behind him to hold Sherlock’s cock in place as he eases himself down. Sherlock lies back against the couch cushions, eyes closed, and they both gasp as the tip of his cock breaches the tight outer ring of muscle to slip inside. John returns both hands to Sherlock’s shoulders, sliding the dressing gown insistently off them so that they meet bare flesh. Then he continues to push slowly downwards, panting, until Sherlock is completely inside him.

They’ve never done it quite like this before, and while good, it’s less than ideal. The angle isn’t quite right and John’s thighs are soon aching from the effort. He stills and leans forward, so that his mouth is close to Sherlock’s earlobe, and he nips at it gently, feeling the tremors pass through Sherlock’s entire body.

“You know what I’d really like to do?” John says, directly into the shell of Sherlock’s ear, low and breathy. He can feel the tiny shifts of Sherlock’s cock inside him, and he loves knowing he has Sherlock’s complete attention in all ways. “Enough of your experiments. I’d like to take you into the bedroom, hold you down and fuck you properly.”

His hands tighten on Sherlock’s upper arms as he presses him back against the sofa, and then he follows up by kissing him forcefully until Sherlock tilts his head back, exposing the line of his throat. He puts up no further resistance, moaning into John’s mouth, and his hips buck up until he’s as deep inside John as possible.

“Oh,” he says, when John lets him breathe.

“What did you say, Sherlock?” John attempts to aid Sherlock’s powers of concentration by levering himself off him completely and shifting over to one side. It appears to work as Sherlock blinks, but he’s still looking a little dazed.

“Yes,” he says hoarsely.

“Yes, what?” John’s only teasing, but he’s nevertheless thoroughly enjoying the sight of Sherlock flustered and flushed. His hand reaches down to keep stroking Sherlock, give him a little further incentive. “You have to tell me what to do, remember?” he adds, amused.

“I want…” Amazingly for someone capable of uttering the most astonishingly tasteless remarks in public, Sherlock ducks his head away, not quite looking at John. “I want you to fuck me.”

John smiles. “ I think that’s a much better idea.” He pushes at the fabric of the dressing gown insistently until it falls completely away from Sherlock’s body, but rescues the lube along the way.

Holding it loosely in one hand, he stands up and holds out his free hand to Sherlock, who for once in his life follows obediently, and without a word of protest. It’s not far to the bedroom, but it’s just enough time for the absurdity of it to sink in, the vision of how awkward they must look. John’s tempted to giggle, but Sherlock seems oblivious, so he holds it together long enough to pull Sherlock down onto the bed and roll him over onto his back. Not wanting to allow him any chance to regain his equilibrium, John kneels in between his spread thighs and wastes no time in taking Sherlock’s cock in hand again, while gliding his tongue along his perineum, effectively rendering both of them incapable of coherent speech.

“Amazing how we ended up here after all.” John remarks, when he finally moves up to cover Sherlock’s body with his own. “Not boring you, am I?”

Sherlock moans in response, and John feels inclined to take that as a ‘no’. John feels around for the displaced lube, and follows up with a slicked finger inside Sherlock, who pushes back most satisfyingly in response. What Sherlock lacks in experience, he’s always made up for in commitment. John teases him a little, circling his finger around before pushing it back in again, and wonders just how far Sherlock might let himself be pushed. With that thought in mind, John stops entirely and shuffles up on his knees, and Sherlock’s eyes open, fuzzily curious.

John takes hold of Sherlock’s arms and pulls them up and over his head. There’s not a lot of room on the bed, so they come to rest with his wrists crossed just above the top of his head, brushing against his hair. Using one hand, John exerts enough pressure to pin them there briefly, just so, while Sherlock blinks at him in confusion. The position lifts his chest up slightly and brings the musculature of his arms into sharp relief, and John stops to appreciate the view.

“I want you to stay just like that. Until I’m finished with you,” he says, and while Sherlock doesn’t answer, it’s clear from his breathing and the trembling in his thighs that he’s taking the idea rather well. John decides to test him a little further, and begins to kiss him, first small soft brushes of lips over his forehead, then covering his eyes, cheeks, and jawline, but avoiding his mouth completely. He follows this exploration with a sharp nip at one side of Sherlock’s neck, and then he licks at the reddening skin before moving on to the other. Throughout this, Sherlock whimpers and twists under him, and his cock is hard and slick against John’s thigh, but his arms stay crossed above his head. John rewards him for this by kissing him properly, rubbing his cock against Sherlock’s belly while his tongue pushes into his mouth.

“Yeah, that’s lovely,” he murmurs. “But I want you to open your eyes. Look at me,” he demands, and there’s a pulse of fierce pleasure as Sherlock obeys him. His eyes are dark and look incapable of deducing much of anything right now, and John feels the familiar adrenaline-sharp thrill in his veins, only this time he’s the one with all the answers, leading the way for both of them, and making Sherlock follow on faith alone.

John takes up where he left off, more lube on his fingers, and Sherlock is still open enough to quickly push first one, then another finger inside him. Sherlock’s upper body is shaking and he’s biting on his lip, marring the bow of his mouth, which John disapproves of.

“How’s that feel, Sherlock? Answer me.”

Sherlock jerks under his hands. “Oh. It’s… it’s good. Yes,” and there’s that slight flush of embarrassment again, delicious.

“Only good?” John shakes his head sadly. His fingers reach and twist delicately inside.

“Ah!” Sherlock is rendered speechless once more, but at least his mouth is open, his abused lip left in peace. His hands, John is pleased to see, are still in position, but his back arches as John presses insistently into him.

“You can’t come,” he adds conversationally, before climbing up and sinking his body back down onto Sherlock’s cock, taking his revenge in pleasure.

“John, no!” Sherlock gasps, and bucks his hips, ruining John’s rhythm completely.

“What did you want, then, Sherlock?” John asks. “You know, I seem to have forgotten. Must have slipped clear out of my inferior little brain.”

“You know.”

“’Fraid I don’t.”

“God, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Sherlock says, his eyes flickering open, and he sounds a little more like himself, now, with the edge in his tone.

“Brilliant deduction. I think I am, yeah.”

Sherlock gives him an annoyed look, but there’s still a warmth in it that fills John with an inexplicable joy. It feels something like affection and exasperation and amazement all bound up together.

“Fuck me, then,” Sherlock says quietly, and this time he manages to hold John’s gaze, although the flush is still high in his cheeks. John curls over to kiss him once before shifting off him and moving lower down the bed. Then he hastens to obey, helping Sherlock shift his hips up and pushing into him as Sherlock’s moans turn to gasps.

“God, Sherlock.” John finds his rhythm quickly, and he could easily lose himself in it, but he does his best to angle his thrusts in the way that makes Sherlock cry out beneath him again and again. It’s a bit hit-and-miss; they have only a few months of tentative discovery between them, John’s relative lack of experience with men and Sherlock’s relative lack of experience with anyone much at all having left them muddling through as best they can. Still, John treasures these moments where Sherlock’s intellect completely deserts him, reducing him to a writhing mass of physical sensation. It’s worth holding himself back for, and he concentrates on pushing Sherlock to his limits, absorbed in the way his name sounds, desperate, from Sherlock’s lips.

“John… John, _please_ ,” Sherlock begs, and pushes his hips upwards, his straining cock meeting only empty air. The way John’s angled means he’s close to upright, kneeling on the bed, and there’s plenty of room between them for Sherlock to reach for himself, wrap his hand around his cock, get himself off. Normally, John might have expected him to do that just that. However, despite everything, Sherlock has kept his hands exactly where John has instructed him to, as obediently as though they had actually been bound in place. Suddenly John wants very badly to see what that might look like.

There’s no time to dwell on the thought, though, as he stops, still buried deep within Sherlock, and takes Sherlock in hand. At the same time, he begins to thrust again, only this time in shorter, shallower movements.

“Ohhhh,” Sherlock says, and John watches as his face contorts, overwhelmed, and then a guttural scream comes from his throat and his cock jerks in John’s hand, warmth spilling over it. When his trembling has died down, John begins to chase his own release, losing himself in Sherlock’s body at last.

John’s never tried to hide how amazing, how astonishing he finds Sherlock, but while Sherlock unquestioningly accepts that his intelligence is worthy of admiration, he’s never seemed to grasp why John’s appreciation would extend to the rest of him. He’s always treated his physical form with something bordering contempt, an inconvenience that requires food and sleep just like anybody else, so painfully ordinary. However, John finds Sherlock’s body no less incredible than his brain, and insists on telling him so, in no uncertain terms. Sherlock absorbs his words silently, with something like wonder. As John comes, his body shaking, he feels Sherlock’s arms wrap around him at last, holding him close.

He slumps down beside Sherlock afterwards, pushing his face into Sherlock’s shoulder, which is damp with sweat, solid, thoroughly human. For long moments there’s only the sound of ragged breathing, but John swears he can actually feel the second Sherlock’s brain clicks back into place from the way his muscles coil and tense, as though preparing to spring out of bed at the first opportunity. It always happens far too soon for John’s liking, although on rare occasions Sherlock will give up entirely and fall asleep instead.

“So,” Sherlock says, shifting onto his side, towards him. “I thought that went rather well.”

“Right.” At this stage John’s brain is mostly still on autopilot, but he’s not about to let Sherlock get away with that level of smugness in his tone. “Just the way you planned, was it?”

“Not strictly speaking, but the results were informative.”

“In that we never need to try that again?”

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “You clearly enjoyed yourself.”

“Yes, but it had nothing to do with you ordering me about. And you still owe me dinner. Which, I’d like to point out, you won’t be in charge of, either. And don’t forget the tidying up after.” John grins as the terms of his bargain come back to him.

Sherlock scowls at him, but it has the same impression upon John as always, which is to say, none at all. John warms to his theme. “You’re right, this ordering people around is fun. Maybe you should let me try it next time.” Then he sobers, remembering the way Sherlock had looked spread out on the bed with his wrists crossed willingly above his head. “In fact,” he prods gently, “you liked it it the other way around, didn’t you? Not being in control of the situation for a change.”

There’s a long silence as Sherlock meets his eyes, then looks away again, and John has his answer. He takes Sherlock’s hand, clasping it in his own, the combined weight of them resting lightly on Sherlock’s chest. “It’s fine, you know,” John says. “Whatever you want. You don’t have to be… embarrassed about it. Any of it.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock snaps, and he tries to get up, but John holds onto him, pulls him back onto the bed.

“Sherlock…” John says, and then stops, because he’s keenly aware there’s little point in discussing it further. While Sherlock would disagree, John thinks there are things that simply _are_ , that have no need of detailed analysis, or of being classified with cold, hard precision. He’d much rather just get on with things, take Sherlock as he finds him, and trust that everything that’s between them will work itself out. In time.

Sherlock is still waiting for him to speak, his eyes wary now, guarded. John squeezes his hand once more and then lets him go.

“So… I was thinking Sandeep’s, then?” John says lightly, and smiles. “ I don’t know about you, but I could murder a curry.”

After a moment’s furrowed confusion, Sherlock nods in acknowledgement, and the tension in him slowly uncurls. Then he leans over to kiss John softly, the relief showing bright and clear in his face, and right now it’s all John really needs to know.


End file.
